It was noon, And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, Hot with the burning leprosy, and touch'd The loathsome water to his fever'd lips, Praying that he might be so blest--to die! Footsteps approach'd, and, with no strength to flee, He drew the covering closer on his lip, Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, He fell upon the earth till they should pass. Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er The leper prostrate form, pronounced his name-- "Helon!" The voice was like the master-tone Of a rich instrument--most strangely sweet; And the dull pulses of disease awoke, And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. "Helon! arise!" and he forgot his curse, And rose and stood before Him. Love and awe Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye As he beheld the stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow The symbol of a princely lineage wore; No followers at His back, nor in His hand Buckler, or sword, or spear,--yet in His mien Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled, A kingly condescension graced His lips, The lion would have crouch'd to in his lair. His garb was simple, and His sandals worn; His stature modell'd with a perfect grace; His countenance the impress of a God, Touch'd with the opening innocence of a child; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon; His hair unshorn Fell to His shoulders; and His curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. He look'd on Helon earnestly awhile, As if His heart were moved, and stooping down He took a little water in His hand And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!" And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant's stole. His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet and worship'd Him. --_N. P. Willis._ THINGS HOPED FOR. These are the crowns that we shall wear, When all thy saints are crowned; These are the palms that we shall bear On yonder holy ground. Far off as yet, reserved in heaven, Above that veiling sky, They sparkle, like the stars of even, To hope's far-piercing eye. These are the robes, unsoiled and white, Which then we shall put on, When, foremost 'mong the sons of light, We sit on yonder throne. That city with the jeweled crest, Like some new-lighted sun; A blaze of burning amethyst-- Ten thousand orbs in one; That is the city of the saints, Where we so soon shall stand, When we shall strike these desert-tents, And quit this desert-sand.